


The Parting Glass

by Iridogorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: After Reichenbach, Molly Hooper is drowning.  She receives a package, request and tradition from a very dead Jim Moriarty.  She receives nothing but burdens from a very alive Sherlock Holmes.





	The Parting Glass

Molly hadn’t been sleeping soundly since the rooftop incident.

Sherlock’s plan went off without a hitch. He’d become a ghost to everyone who loved him, and a heavy burden to the one person who didn’t matter much at all. She felt like the secret was filling her pockets with lead, and wondered if it would sink her to the bottom of the Thames if she jumped. Sherlock would use her like a stepping stone, a means to an end, never mind that the river of lies was drowning her. He’d probably think her spine a fine bridge, compliment her excellent posture while striding across it.

She stared at his posh black headstone during the goodbyes, glossy and smooth and covering a coffin full of lies, and she began to feel the seed of resentment, of hatred, of spite worm it’s roots into her heart. Neither John nor Mrs. Hudson could guess that her tears were from shame and frustration instead of sorrow. 

Neither one of them spared her another thought, too wrapped up in being the people that Sherlock loved. She stood in the back, the person who was of use but never of worth.

She left without saying goodbye.

She hadn’t slept through the night since, her dreams full of monsters from the deep, her body always too heavy to reach the surface. The days turned into weeks turned into a month and more. She more closely resembled the corpses in the morgue than her coworkers.

“You can’t keep going like this, Molly-mine.” A sad Irish lilt came from her doorway, one sleepless witching hour.

She’d been without sleep for so long she hallucinated.

Jim was there, his face soft like Jim from IT, large eyes and slashing brows sad, full of concern. His clothing was the same as it was when they brought him to the morgue, dark jacket, dark pants, dark blazer, polished onyx shoes, dark tie with the strange oval pattern, and his bright bright purple-pink shirt (the moon drew enough saturation out that it looked the color of his brain). Layers and layers and layers, and if Mycroft hadn’t intervened and taken the body she would have been the one to peel them back one last time. She wondered, wildly, what color his underwear might have been.

His hand loosely held the gun he used to make the neat hole in the back of his head.

A fine gun, she’d admired the clean lines of it. Afterward. Beretta was an Italian brand, just like his shoes. Finely crafted and appropriate.

Jim from IT had been partial to Italian. He had hinted at wanting to own a vintage Maserati when he retired, over warm plates of mediocre lasagna in the cafeteria. She had hinted that she would love to watch him handle such a powerful machine, fluttering her lashes, watching him blush and fumble his fork. She’d given him a hand job that night at her place, after making a truly terrible pun about driving stick shift. He’d laughed a breathy laugh and then it quickly turned to moans.

Jim Moriarty probably owned ten Masteratis. She wondered, from time to time, if he ever looked at one and thought of her and her nimble hands.

The shade of Jim came closer and kneeled by her bedside. “I’m here to tell you that you need to get some sleep, Molls. You have to stay well, I have one thing I needed to ask of you. Stay well at least until you can complete it. I see you. I care.”

She looked confused, but the weight of lies was heavy on her eyelids and she feel into sleep, wordless humming of something that might have been a lullaby ringing in her ears and following her down and down and down.

She missed her next shift at Bart’s. And the one after that, and then two more. Her supervisor called her in concern, and she made the half lie of being extremely under the weather, too weak to do much than sleep and wake and fall right back into sleep. Her supervisor had seen her, seen the death pallor of her face and her sunken eyes, and gave her two weeks off.

“Take care of yourself,” and “We’re worried about you,” and “Hope you feel better.”

It sounded like a farewell to someone who may or may not ever come back. A farewell to someone…terminal.

She received a package two days into her sabbatical, posted to ‘M. Hooper’ with no return address.

After thanking the concerned looking delivery man (had she changed her clothes in the past week? Is that where that smell was coming from? Gravedirt and despair, appropriate.) she took the heavy box to her couch where she’d cuddled with Jim from IT.

The shade of Jim Moriarty appeared next to her again. His smile was so wide, so genuine, she knew who the package was from immediately. He tapped his Beretta against his knee, one hand curled under his boyish face, “Well? Are you going to open it? Oh I think you’ll like it.”

She sighed and looked at him with such sad eyes, flicking between the ghost and the box before pushing, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll open it,” past unused and weak vocal chords. If she was going to lose her mind, she might as well make conversation.

The butcher paper wrapping discarded, but neatly to preserve the handwriting she suspected belonged to the real Jim, and then the box gently opened because she had no idea how delicate the contents were, and then before she looked inside she peeked over at the ghost, the figment of her imagination.

“Why would Jim Moriarty send me anything? Anything at all?” She didn’t expect an answer, but the eyes of the ghost softened even further, liquid doe’s eyes full of affection that she craved.

“Because, Molly Hooper, I saw you. You got my attention.” His face turned sharp when he said it, transforming from a doe to a wolf bearing sharp teeth. He softened again and sighed, “I knew you’d do this one last thing for me. This one last tradition carried out.” It’s true, Molly has a habit of doing what is asked of her.

Inside of the box was a bottle of Greenore, a single grain Irish whiskey that had been aged for 8 years, two heavy cut crystal tumblers, and a handwritten note: “Sing me The Parting Glass and see what happens. Xoxo JM. PS: sing it near the fairy ring in St Catherine’s Park, by the River Liffey in Dublin for an extra surprise.”

She hadn’t known many facts about Jim from IT or Jim Moriarty or anybody in between, but all of them were definitely Irish, and some traditions are held more strictly than others.

Hidden under the note was enough money to buy a ticket on the next flight out and pay for her rent for the next four years.

The shade of Jim Moriarty beamed at her. “You better get a first class seat, Molly Hooper. I take care of the people I notice.” He paused then tittered, waving the silver gun haphazardly. “Well, one way or another.”

She forced a smile at a ghost only she could see, then carefully folded the contents back into the box and stood to get her luggage.

She was on the next flight out, after sunset, with nothing but a carry-on containing her best mourning outfit, enough mismatched shirts and pants for a few days travel, the contents of the box and a printed version of the lyrics for The Parting Glass. She bought an MP3 player and listened to all of the different versions she could find, humming along while she stared out over the heavy clouds but beneath the heavens.

She changed into all black in the airport bathroom. The shade of Jim grinned wickedly at her matching black lace underthings and gave her a wink that she ignored.

When she went to pick up her rented car, she found it had been upgraded. The shade of Jim whispered heavy in her ear, “I take care of those I notice.” He pressed the Beretta against his own temple and gave a cheeky grin. “One way or another.”

She drove from the Dublin Airport in a black Maserati. The shade of Jim put his feet up on the dash and gave her a possessive grin. Unhinged and much closer to Jim Moriarty than Jim from IT.

It took her fifteen minutes to get to the park, her stomach feeling heavier and heavier with each passing landmark.

She parked the car, smoothed her hands over the leather steering wheel, and then down her gauzy blouse and pencil skirt. She went through a checklist: straighten your stockings, make sure your flats are as clean as possible (she’d packed heels just in case, it seemed like something he’d like for her to wear while she sang but without suffering through the indignity of walking through the soft grounds in them), smooth your hair into it’s tight updo and add the small mourning veil, it hides your face so no makeup touchup needed, and then out you go, Molly Hooper.

The silent ghost that had sat next to her in the passenger seat offered no commentary, only a silent, still stare and a nod when she turned to get her bag from under him. The Beretta was tapping against his thigh.

She got out and locked the car. The passenger seat was empty when she looked a second time.

Molly Hooper made her way across an empty parking lot, 600 km from home, to fulfill a request from a dead man.

The fairy ring was easy to find, covered in soft green grass turned dark as old blood in the moonlight, white rocks almost blinding in their intensity. Like ancient, bleached bones.

The silence was suffocating and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She looked over her shoulder, but the dense foliage didn’t so much as sway in a breeze. Why did she feel eyes on the back of her neck?

Sighing and rubbing her eyes through the veil, Molly crouched down to quickly change into her heels, unpack and pour two fingers of the liquor into each heavy glass.

Holding one glass in each hand, she took a sip of the fragrant whiskey (vanilla and caramel and just a touch of cinnamon, surprisingly delicious), cleared her throat and began to sing:

Oh all the money that e'er I spent  
I spent it in good company  
And all the harm that e'er I've done  
Alas, it was to none but me   
And all I've done for want of wit  
To memory now I can't recall  
So fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all  
Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had  
Are sorry for my going away  
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had  
Would wish me one more day to stay  
But since it falls unto my lot  
That I should rise and you should not  
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call  
Good night and joy be with you all  
Good night and joy be with you all

On the last two lines of the song, a heavy, accented, distinctly male voice joined her, came forward, and plucked the glass she’d sipped from out of her steady hand.

Molly Hooper was not at all surprised to be face to face with a very much alive James Moriarty.

His hair slicked back, his face sharper, his eyes so aware and keenly fixed to her. An expensive suit, black with a thin tie and bone white shirt buttoned all the way up. His head whole and unblemished.

He ran his tongue over the rim of the tumbler where her lips had touched, his dark dark eyes absorbing the moon and light and the breath from her lungs, he took in the warm whiskey in one generous, elegant mouthful.

Molly didn’t dare to breathe.

They stared at each other until the silence fouled and the mood passed.

He dangled the glass from one hand and shoved the other into his pocket. “You have a lovely singing voice, Molly Hooper.”

She tilted her head, the weight of sleeplessness and secrets and lies and glasses full of expensive whiskey holding her mouth closed and her eyes fixed to him. She was too damn tired to play any games.

“Did you notice me, James Moriarty?” Her voice was lower, rougher, unused and twisted with something that might have been anger, might have been bitterness. “Do you see me, now, in front of you?”

He smiled his sharp wolf smile, all teeth and promise. “Oh I see you, Molly-Mine. I see you and I like what I see, very very much.”

She felt one side of her red painted lip raise in a snarl, her eyes just as sharp as his. His eyes got darker and he bit the lip of the tumbler.

“Sherlock abandoned you. Used you and cast you aside. Nobody called, huh? Nobody checked in on poor Molly Hooper. Poor, talented, useful Molly Hooper. You may as well have died the same day as Sherlock walked out of that place alive. You’re nobody, Molly Hooper.” He took a step forward, watching her. Picking out her expression from behind the veil. “You’re nobody. But not to me.” He shook his head violently and stepped closer still, so she could smell the expensive cologne and laundry power on his clothes.

She raised her head and felt a weight lift off of her, and a new one press her down even further.

He leaned in and lifted the veil without protest, like a terrible terrible wedding. He drank in her face, tired and cold as it was, and leaned in to whisper against her lips, “You’re not nobody because you’re MINE.” He caught her mouth in a kiss so deep, so possessive, she couldn’t help but curl the hand not holding the tumbler into his hair. His hands smoothed down her waist and pressed each fingertip into her hips.

He broke away and she downed the contents of her glass in a single swallow.

“Did you know,” he said conversationally, stepping away from her, “that there’s a myth about these fairy rings. Learned it from me ma. If you step into one, especially at night, especially under the full moon, you’ll be lost?” He captures her eyes with his, walking around the circle slowly. “You’ll disappear into the fairy realm. Maybe they’ll let you go.” He shrugged, an elegant roll of his shoulders. “But if you drank their drink?” He lifted his glass and quirked his brow. “Or ate their food? You could never.” Coming back around to her. “Ever.” Those black shoes crushed the grass, heavy footfalls. “Come back to the land of mortals.”

He stepped so close to her again, and she angled her body to reflect his. So close, but never touching. His hand in his pocket, her arms crossed but holding her empty tumbler to her lipstick smeared mouth.

“Do you want to step into the circle, Molly Hooper?” A being a little less human and a little more shadow stared at her. A ghost to his side with a Beretta, taking care of what’s his. One way or another.

She had barely moved the entire time, running her life through her mind and coming up so short. What was there to go back to? Who was there to go back to? A man who may or may not come back and demand to use her spine as a bridge again and again and again? The memory of friends? The feeling of drowning on dry land every time she thought about the mountain of lies she sat on?

Jim reached down and grabbed the bottle of Greenore, dangling it in front of her like a lifesaver.

With only a moment’s hesitation, she met his eyes and held out her tumbler. He smiled sharply and poured for both of them. Holding out his arm, she threaded hers through and they walked into the circle together, drinking as soon as they passed.

—

Officially, Molly Hooper vanished.

There was no record of a delivery, or a plane, or a rented Maserati.

Moriarty owned the delivery company, the airline, and had supplied the car from his personal collection with one of his men as the ‘attendant’.

It was spoken in her building in hushed tones. Nobody had noticed, but suddenly her flat was completely empty. Even the cat was gone. Her lease agreement vanished, like she’d never lived there at all.

No Molly Hooper had ever been employed at Bart’s. Records wiped completely clean.

A flurry of paperwork built a new life for Mrs. Moira Moriarty (the alliteration made him laugh, when they chose her name, and his accent when he said the full name against her neck during the night, with his length pressed against her, made her weak weak weak) and her passport stamps and slightly less-than-legal skillsets expanded at a competitive pace. Quietly rebuilding an empire in a sunny part of the world far away from anyone who danced on spines or called themselves a 'consulting detective'.

Mrs. Moriarty had a new life, so much better than a sad flat in London with only the dead to talk to. She had a man who wasn't a ghost, a man who always took care of what was his. One way or another.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never been to Ireland, so most of my information comes from Google. Thank you for reading!


End file.
